I almost forgot the Fourth of July, but then I drove a tank

I think that balances out.

Over all the clatter and sweat and roar and reek of diesel, the thought occurs to me: I just muzzle-swept San Francisco with 152mm worth of tank barrel.

I look over at the man keeping an eye on this ridiculous operation. He's wearing a "Fartacus" t-shirt and a helmet with the letters 'TDMF' painted in bold red enamel on the forehead. "TD" stands for "Tank Driving." You can guess the rest. He's inches away from the driver's compartment, hanging on for dear life and grinning exactly as much as I am.

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I let the M551 Sheridan clatter to a near stop on level ground and engage
first gear, then turn the tank on its axis, applying a healthy stab of
throttle and lots of right lock. We pivot a perfect 180 degrees and come
to a stop aimed down an oak-lined dirt road. The TDMF says, "Alright, it's
all yours!" and slides off the bow of the tank.

I can't believe how easy the Sheridan is to drive. Alex O'Neill, operator
and mechanic, walked me through the process 10 minutes ago, and now he's letting me loose in the thing. Start with with the brakes in by applying all your weight and strength to the pedal on the left. Disengage the fuel cutoff. Turn the fuel pump on and listen for the loud whine to tell you it's working. Thumb the ignition, and all hell breaks loose.

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That means you've done it right. Hell breaking loose is the name of the game. There are artillery shells under my left arm. Under my right are MGM-51 Shillelagh rockets. Both fire through the same stubby cannon directly overhead. Alex tells me that in combat, the ammunition's solid propellant would sometimes separate from the rest of the round and clank around the bottom of the crew compartment, just to make things interesting.

They call this tank DEATHSTALKER, its name painted in black paint down the barrel of the main gun. It occupies most of my view. The driver of a Sheridan tank couldn't fit more war around him if he tried.

The Sheridan rolls easily and takes even more effort to stop. Every time
I get on the brakes, it sounds like I'm trying to crush a spring
mattress. I take to using both feet and have to push so hard that I
slide up the seat slightly. The little lift is agreeable, as it improves
the view.

Once I'm under way again, it's easy to grab another gear. First gear will spin the
tank in place or let it stroll along, able to pivot quickly. Second
allows the thing to get up to speed. Third offers a hotter pace. There's a
fourth in there, too, but I didn't have the stones to go looking for it on
the tight dirt road.

I make my way through the oaks and down a steep hill. It's a little frightening how much velocity a tank can achieve with gravity at its back. On the way back up, I nail
the gas and find the Sheridan eager to ascend. I didn't ever imagine a tank seeming fast. It does.

I tow dirt by the pound in the air behind me. It mixes with diesel
exhaust and whirls in my wake. The whole thing feels like a delightfully
manly dream.

Putting the tank exactly where it needs to be, not on top of a
land mine or one of your buddies, would take practice. But It's the communication between all four crew in the tank that's the real challenge.

Behind the driver's seat, there's a loader and a gunner. Above those brave
souls is the tank commander. He's the guy you imagine with the
binoculars hanging onto the .50 cal.

Visiting that position a little later, I learn that a lot of the chirping,
squealing, and squeaking I associate with a tank isn't coming from the
tracks. It's coming from all the hatches and equipment topside
being violently jostled against itself.

For a few seconds, I'm mesmerized by the racket and the smoke of
the supercharged six-cylinder Detroit Diesel snorting out through the
fishtail exhaust, then an oak branch reminds me of my exposed position. It seems like a good time to take shelter in the aluminum hull.

It's that hull that made this machine a light tank. With a comparatively small main gun and a crew of four, this Sheridan weighs in at 15 tons. Engineers designed the machine to be parachuted out of an airplane. In a pinch, a C-130 could swoop down and deploy this thing out of the back door at speed and nearly ready to fight.

Other than the incredible effort required to get the tank to stop or stay
put, the Sheridan turned out to be a pleasure to drive. Show your average
18-year-old some instructional footage sandwiched between VD films, and
they'd be fine at the helm.

My nerves shot, not by the challenge of driving but by the stress of
being responsible for such a massive, dangerous thing, I hand it back to
TDMF Alex for the trip back to the Littlefield Collection. Then I duck
inside again and watch down the barrel as we turn past San Francisco one
last time.